


Things To Do In Gotham (When You're Dead)

by Sleeping_Martyr



Category: Batman (Comics), DCU (Comics), Hitman (Comics), Spectre (Comics)
Genre: Gen, I don't remember if Monaghan ever crossed paths with Corrigan.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-14
Updated: 2019-03-14
Packaged: 2019-11-17 22:53:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18108167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sleeping_Martyr/pseuds/Sleeping_Martyr
Summary: Said things include smoking, drinking coffee, walking around and ruminating on life and death. Y'know, like you do.Post-Crisis. Take a short stroll with my favorite dead guy in the DCU. Couple of naughty words, nothing too harsh.





	Things To Do In Gotham (When You're Dead)

Bright and early, ten past seven on a mid-March morning, Jim Corrigan walks out of his building and lights his pipe. You've seen this before, of course. Big, red-headed mother in a tweed suit and overcoat. He looks like a cop in an old movie. He catches the sidelong glances from his shanty Irish neighbors (the Cauldron never gentrified much. Gotham ain't New York, and this damn well ain't Hell's Kitchen) but they don't concern him, so he continues about his business. Probably for the best. Bad things, SCARY bad things, tend to happen to those who've captured his undivided attention. But we're getting ahead of ourselves, aren't we? 

He can see you, too, by the way. Even if nobody else can. Just some food for thought. 

So, yeah. Corrigan. He DOES look like a cop, which is unsuprising. You've seen all of this, so it isn't news to you that he used to be a cop. Long time ago. You could say that he's private now. The types of cases he involves himself with tend to fall outside the purview of standard law enforcement agencies. This suits him fine. Some of them might catch the attention of Gotham's native vigilante, but Corrigan's pretty good about keeping his business to himself. He prefers to work alone. Used to be different, but over time, he noticed bad things happening to the people that he surrounded himself with. Not in every case (you're aware of some of the tough geezers who count themselves as his friends), but often enough. Jim is older than he looks, and years of other people's pain started to take their toll. Eventually, he decided that his own council was all that he needed, and he's never looked back. Yeah, if he needs help, he'll ask for it, but that doesn't happen often. The people whose help he'd solicit (the wizards, demons, demigods and icons) are all aware of him, and know what he's capable of. Almost all of them are terrified by him. ALMOST all. Batman respects him, but probably doesn't fear him. Corrigan has, from time to time, wondered what Batman IS afraid of, but has never reached any conclusions. Doesn't matter. The Bat's a pretty standup guy, and Jim respects that. 

Five blocks down, one crosstown. Christ, what a lousy neighborhood. 

The Cauldron never gentrified much, but there are some exceptions. The coffee shop that Jim (and we) walk into? This is gentrification in action. This place stands on the location of the former Noonan's Bar. Interesting place, Noonan's. Its patrons were primarily, well, let's call them freelancers. Back then, there were a hell of a lot more guns floating around. Back when Gotham broke? When the whole damn city fell down? Noonan's customers held their ground and kept this little slice of paradise safe. By themselves. This one cat, Tommy, managed to marshal a group of his friends, and they didn't give a goddamn inch. One time, no shit, he shook Superman's hand. Tommy might've killed people for money, but he was another standup guy. Jim was aware of the crew at Noonan's, and even dimly aware of their activities, but never crossed paths with any of them. It strikes him now as a missed opportunity. Superman is a pretty sharp judge of character. 

They're all dead now. That entire crew died too young. At least they're in a better place. 

(Which isn't an empty platitude on Corrigan's part. You know better than that. He's well aware that Tommy and his friends are ACTUALLY in a better place. A corner of Valhalla reserved for them, where the beer on tap is always top-shelf, and closing time never comes.) 

By the time Corrigan gets his coffee and hits the street again, the wind has picked up. The cold doesn't bother him. Hasn't bothered him in more than eighty years. It won't bother you, either. You're just watching, after all. Keep pace with him for a bit longer. At the moment, there's not a lot to see. Just a big, red-headed mother in a tweed suit and overcoat walking against the wind. He's waiting. Sometimes, the waiting feels like an eternity, but it's never actually that long. When it happens, like an exhalation across the back of his neck, he picks up his step. He's gonna walk around that corner, pitch the now-empty cup he's holding, and vanish. Nobody's gonna see that part (aside from us). He does that. When he pops back up, in Metropolis, or Lisbon, or Dearborn, Michigan, he's gonna look a lot different (hell, you know how he looks when he goes to work). 

Jim Corrigan. Ex-cop and working stiff. 

You know how it goes. 

You've seen it before, after all.


End file.
